The Geostorm Series (Book 2): Geostorm [The Pulse]

by Akart, Bobby

  This caused them to truly laugh out loud, finally able to release the tension of the ordeal they’d just been through. Tommy slowed as he pulled in front of her modest craftsman-style home.

  He turned off the motor and turned to Kristi. “I can come in to help.”

  She gave him a sweet smile and thanked him, but declined his assistance. She needed to be alone while she gathered a few personal effects.

  Kristi exited the SUV and bounded up the stairs to unlock the door. She entered the foyer and immediately noticed that something was wrong. At first, she was confused as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. For a brief moment, she thought she’d entered the wrong house.

  Kristi backed up a few steps and reached behind her to flip on the light switch. That was when she discovered her home had been ransacked. She immediately became afraid. She raced out of the house and ran back to the side of the truck. Tommy had lowered the windows to allow some fresh air in, as the chimpanzee smelled like, well, a zoo animal.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Somebody broke into my house. Tommy, it’s been trashed.”

  “I’ll call the cops,” he offered.

  “Cell service is down, remember.”

  “Shit, yeah. Um, do you have a landline?”

  “In the kitchen, but I don’t—”

  Tommy finished her sentence emphatically. “Nor will you go in alone. Hang on.” He closed the windows to leave a slight crack, and then he exited the truck, allowing the chimp to slumber in the back seat.

  Tommy raced around the truck and grabbed Kristi by the hand. They ran up the stairs but cautiously entered the house.

  “Hello?” asked Tommy loudly. “If you’re still in here, you need to get out. I’ve called the police and I have a gun!” he lied. The police had confiscated their weapons as evidence. Kristi didn’t put up a fight. She had more at home.

  “Help me turn on the lights.”

  He slipped his arm around the wall in the formal living room to the left and flipped on the ceiling fan, light kit combination. Kristi darted into the dining room and pushed the dimmer button on the chandelier before turning it up to full brightness. Every piece of china and décor on her dining table had been swept onto the floor or thrown against the china hutch, smashing out the glass.

  The sound of glass shattering came from the kitchen, followed by the clinking of jagged shards tumbling piecemeal to the floor. Kristi started in that direction, but Tommy grabbed her arm.

  “It’s too dangerous,” he whispered.

  “They’re trashing my house,” she complained.

  “Well, me first.” Tommy pushed past her as the sounds of cupboard doors slamming and canned goods being dumped out filled the downstairs of the house.

  The kitchen was dark, but Tommy was unafraid. He rushed in there, screaming, “Get out of here or I’ll shoot!”

  The crashing sounds stopped, but heavy breathing could be heard in the silence of their surroundings.

  Kristi entered the kitchen and found the light switches. The fluorescent overhead bulbs started up with a hissing sound before illuminating the room. Sitting perfectly still on the kitchen counter was a familiar face.

  Knight, or what used to be Knight. In just a short time, he was changed, both mentally and physically. He had developed muscles. They were tight, robust, and solid looking. His face reflected this change. It was ravenous, lean, and hungry, and partially covered by long rangy hair that dangled over his forehead.

  She whispered to Tommy, “He remembered how to get here. Somehow, he remembered.”

  “Kristi, please be careful,” Tommy warned.

  “Knight? It’s me, Kristi. Do you remember me?” As Kristi spoke, she used sign language.

  Knight was unresponsive.

  Kristi moved a little closer, causing him to immediately tense and slide onto his rear legs into a lunging position. There was no recognition of her in his eyes.

  “Be careful,” warned Tommy again. He stepped slowly to Kristi’s left, putting himself in a position to intercept any attack by Knight.

  Knight’s nose was running, and his eyes were bloodshot. His nose sniffled continuously as he tried to assess whether Kristi and Tommy were threats. Every decision Knight made was based upon his genetics, utilizing his senses of sight, smell, and hearing to determine if he was being threatened.

  “Knight, good morning. Are you hungry?” Kristi was speaking while signing at the same time. She reverted back to the earliest commands and conversations she’d taught him as a young chimp. She hoped to reach deep into his mind in an effort to spark some recollection of her.

  Knight was processing her actions. They weren’t threatening, but they were not recognizable. Still, he appeared intrigued.

  Kristi suddenly stopped as Knight began to rock back and forth as his confused mind processed visions of Kristi opening the door of his cage, carefully cradling him in her arms, and speaking in soft, hushed tones in an effort to soothe him. He was starting to remember. It was kindness, and it came from this human.

  “Oo-oo-oo-oo.”

  “Yes, Knight. Hello. Good morning. Use sign language.” Kristi was desperately trying to get through to him. She felt that he was coming around, because his facial expression went from guarded to relaxed. As she got closer, Knight no longer recoiled.

  Kristi smiled, crouched somewhat, and held her hand out to him as if she were a queen asking one of her subjects to kiss the ring. For primates, it was a submissive gesture, her way of reminding Knight that she was not a threat.

  Knight extended his index finger and cautiously reached out toward Kristi’s hand. She stretched her arm, convinced that if they could make physical contact, he’d remember how close they were, and that she was not a threat to him.

  She could see the change in his eyes. A softness. The glare turned into a look of familiarity. They were so close and then …

  The still of the early morning hours was shattered by the sound of two vehicles crashing into each other on the nearby Eisenhower Expressway just beyond Rehm Park a block away.

  The loud noise frightened Knight. He recoiled and immediately jumped to his feet.

  Waving his arms high over his head, Knight shrieked, “Heeaagh!”

  It was a violent squall. Noisy. High-pitched. Grinding on the senses.

  “Heeaagh! Heeaagh! Heeaagh!”

  Instinctively, Kristi moved forward to comfort Knight. “It’s okay. I’m here. Stay, please.”

  Knight would have none of it. He launched himself across the kitchen until he hung from a Tiffany-shade chandelier over the kitchen table. He swung for a moment and then launched himself across the room toward the back door. He began to violently pound on it.

  “Heeaagh! Heeaagh! Heeaagh!”

  Kristi and Tommy approached him from different angles, both speaking in calm tones and holding their arms out to appear comforting.

  It was too late. They’d lost him.

  Knight bounded forward and knuckle-ran between them across the shards of glass in the dining room. He never hesitated as he leapt through the same broken window he’d created at the side of the house when he’d found his way there earlier.

  Without so much as a hoot or a holler, Knight, or what was left of him, was gone forever.

  Chapter 50

  Point Pleasant, West Virginia

  By the time Chapman and Isabella reached the Ohio River at Point Pleasant, West Virginia, they were riding on fumes and decided they’d better stop before they crossed into Gallipolis, Ohio.

  They bore little resemblance to the young couple who’d had drinks the first night Chapman arrived in Paris. He now had a full understanding of why Harley riders walked into a gas station like they had a severe case of diaper rash.

  Isabella, who rode the entire trip on the back of the BMW with her arms wrapped around Chapman’s waist, occasionally caught a glimpse of herself in the side mirrors. She didn’t like what was looking back at her.

  Certainly,
the two had every right to appear disheveled, to put it mildly. Neither had the clothing customarily used by experienced bikers to protect themselves from the wind, sun and road grime while they rode in the open air. Leather was easier to wipe off than blue jeans and cotton shirts. The wind was brutal on their hair, especially with no bandanas or helmets, both of which were lost during the chaos at the service plaza. And the sun, which continued to beat down on the Midwest, was especially brutal as the magnetic field weakened.

  Chapman slowed to exit before the bridge and pulled into the sleepy little town known for its role in The Mothman Prophecies movie starring Richard Gere. The movie was about a big-city journalist whose wife continuously experienced supernatural mothlike visions before she was suddenly killed in a car accident. Obsessed with finding out what they meant, he left the city and traveled to Point Pleasant, West Virginia, and its sister city across the Ohio River, Gallipolis, Ohio.

  The first few gas stations near the highway were out of gas, so Chapman slowly drove farther into the small town until he located a rundown, old Chevron station near city hall. It only took him a minute or two to fill the tank of the motorcycle and his spare five-gallon tank. It took even less than that for the proprietor to extort a C-note for payment.

  Ten dollars a gallon was ridiculous, but it represented the law of supply and demand at the moment. Chapman’s choice to avoid the busy interstate system had proven to be a good one, as traffic was minimal, and the exposed ride took a little less of a toll on their bodies.

  They were both anxious to strip out of the smoke-covered clothing they’d worn since the incident at the service plaza. Isabella went into the restroom first and tried to clean up her face and hair. She changed her clothes and left her soot-stained jeans and shirt in the trash bin.

  Somewhat refreshed, she watched their belongings while Chapman tried to become more presentable. They still had two hundred fifty miles to travel, and their efforts at sprucing up would be undone within an hour, but they tried just the same.

  While he was inside the restroom, she wandered about to stretch her legs. Something in the small pedestrian median down the street caught her eye. She turned to check on the bike and sidecar, and then wandered down the street until she was face-to-face with the Mothman.

  “Isabella!” shouted Chapman, who was surprised to emerge from the restroom and not find her near the motorcycle.

  “Over here!” she shouted back.

  She stood in front of the statue, reading the plaque titled Legend of the Mothman. She shielded her eyes to block out the sun as she studied the hideous creature. Chapman joined her side and frowned.

  “That is one ugly, um, moth-thing.”

  “I do not understand,” she began. “Why would this town celebrate this monster? In France, we pay homage to heroes and beauty. Not this.”

  Chapman took her by the hand and they stood together, taking in a good look at the Mothman one more time. He explained to her that this creature was depicted in a movie nearly thirty years ago that was based on this town.

  “You see, small towns in America struggle to create an identity for themselves. They want to be known as being important or famous for something. In Pennsylvania, where we left a few hours ago, there’s the town of Hershey known for being the place where the famous chocolate was made. And there’s Punxsutawney, which has the famous groundhog.”

  “Groundhog? What is that?”

  “It’s a woodchuck.”

  “Why would they celebrate a woodchuck or groundhog?”

  “Because every year on February 2, the town gathers around to see if Punxsutawney Phil the groundhog sees its shadow. This is how they predict if the town will have six more weeks of winter or an early spring.”

  Isabella furrowed her brow and studied Chapman’s face. She playfully thumped his chest. “I warned you not to lie to me, Monsieur Boone.”

  Chapman started laughing while he rubbed the spot where she’d slugged him. “No, I’m serious. It’s American folklore that if Punxsutawney Phil emerges from his hole on that day and sees his shadow, there will be six more weeks of winter.”

  “That’s stupid,” she said and slugged him again. “I will ask your mother if this is true, and if she says no, you will need to hide from me this winter.”

  Isabella glanced up at the Mothman and gave it a disapproving look. As she crossed the street, a hot gust of wind blew between the buildings, and a printed flyer swirled toward her, catching on her leg. She immediately grabbed the paper and flipped it over to see what it said.

  Chapman lingered for a moment and finished reading the plaque until Isabella called out his name.

  “Chapman! It is them. Come see!”

  “Who, them?”

  “The sketchy hooligans from the fire. Look.” She handed him the flyer and read parts of it aloud.

  “Damn,” he muttered. “They were escaped convicts. Their girlfriends were accomplices.”

  Isabella pointed to the paper. “Killers, too. Chapman, we battled killers and won.”

  “Or lived to tell about it,” he mumbled under his breath. He looked toward the sky, and the sun immediately began to warm his face. He’d been wearing a long-sleeve tee shirt since they left Teterboro and noticed how it protected his arms from the sun’s intensity. He held his hands out to inspect them.

  “What are you doing?” asked Isabella.

  “Look at my hands,” he replied, turning them over and over again to inspect the damage they’d sustained. “I washed them in the restroom, but they’re still very dirty looking. Almost sunburned.”

  He turned to Isabella and gently pulled her blouse away from her neck and shoulders.

  “Do not get frisky with me in public, Chapman Boone,” she threatened.

  “No, I’m looking at your skin. The sun is burning us. We need to put on more clothes.”

  “It’s so hot.”

  “I know, but the magnetic field is weaker, and the sun-protection factor has diminished.”

  Isabella sighed and wrapped her arm through his. “How much longer to your farm?”

  “About five to six hours or so. If we drive at a steady pace with no more stops, we can get there around dark.”

  She nodded as they reached the motorcycle, and then added, “Soon, we may have to live in the dark.”

  Chapter 51

  Northwest Ontario, Canada

  Levi walked due east, according to the compass, which was more south-southeast by the position of the sun. The terrain was increasingly rocky the farther he traveled from Hudson Bay and the lowlands that surrounded it.

  Twice he came across small streams that flowed toward the east and back toward the north where he came from. Ordinarily, as every kid learns in Boy Scouts 101, when you get lost, travel downstream and you’ll make your way out of the woods. In this case, all streams led to Hudson Bay, and Levi had no desire to go back in that direction.

  He chose the easiest terrain he could find as he steadily moved in a southerly direction toward more populated areas. Without a map and a functioning GPS device, he simply assumed he’d come across a town or a hunting cabin at some point.

  He kept his water bottles full of snow and tucked them under his armpit so he would have a constant supply of water. When he came across a stream, he’d gulp the fresh water down and refill the padded squeeze bottles to stay hydrated.

  Levi had walked for hours, and the sun was quickly setting in the west when he crossed another wide, but shallow stream. As he emerged on the other side, he found himself trudging through several sumps full of standing water and muddy soil. The bog had been formed in an area surrounded by rock outcroppings that jutted out like the upper deck of a football stadium.

  His feet sank in the muck, at times forcing him to use his arms to pull his leg out of the mud. He’d just emerged from the mess when he came across a wolf caught in a trap. The beautiful grayish-white creature was bloodied around her hindquarters where the powerful steel trap had clamped down on her le
g.

  As Levi approached, the confused and frightened animal backed away, straining at the trap chain that was wrapped around a pine tree and padlocked in place.

  Levi raised his rifle and pointed it toward the wolf. Thoughts of Karl and Eddie’s mangled bodies raced through his mind, and for a brief moment, he considered exacting his revenge on the defenseless wolf, which was most likely not involved in the slaughter.

  Instead, Levi, in the dimming daylight, scanned the perimeter to make sure none of the wolf’s friends were lurking about. Satisfied he was safe, he held his rifle barrel down and slowly approached the trapped animal.

  “Hey, girl,” he said in a calm voice as the wolf snarled at him. He pointed at her belly. “Your teats sure are swollen. Where are your pups?”

  Levi crouched down without getting too close to the wolf, who’d pulled away from him as far as she could. A frightened, cornered animal, even if restrained, could lash out and possibly kill him.

  He studied her leg. The powerful jaws of the trap had clamped down near her hips. It had punctured the meaty part of her leg and would most likely cause her to bleed out within days.

  He grimaced and stood, turning in a circle as if seeking answers to what he should do next. She’d only recently been trapped, which meant her pups might be nearby. Finally, he turned back to the wolf and said, “Let’s have a look for your babies. From the looks of your belly, they’re probably hungry.”

  Levi headed for the arena-shaped outcroppings in search of the wolf pups. There wasn’t any snow on the ground as he traveled south, but the soil was muddy, and he hoped he could come across the mother’s tracks. He found where the mother wolf had pawed at the soil on a barely discernible trail leading downhill to the bog. He followed the trail through the pine saplings up toward the rocky slope.

  As he drew closer, he heard a squeaking sound. Levi raised his rifle and cautiously approached a part of the rocky face that stuck out to create a ledge. That was when he noticed the wolf puppy paw prints in the wet soil. They’d ventured out of the den from time to time in search of their mother, only to retreat to safety when they couldn’t see her.